Viserys’s chambers overlooked Blackwater Bay.
The evening light filtered through tall windows, bathing the room in amber as Viserys stood over his model of Old Valyria.
Cities of carved stone.
Tiny bridges.
Slender towers.
Dragonroads winding through a civilisation that no longer existed.
The king picked up a small brush and carefully spread fresh mortar between two miniature buildings.
He found comfort in rebuilding a city that history had already destroyed.
A knock disturbed the quiet.
“Enter.”
Ser Harrold Westerling stepped inside and bowed.
“Your Grace.”
“What is it, Ser Harrold?”
“Lady Alicent Hightower requests leave to see you.”
After a moment’s thought, Viserys nodded.
“Show her in.”
Ser Harrold Westerling stepped into the corridor.
“Lady Alicent.
His Grace will receive you.”
Alicent inclined her head and walked towards the king’s chambers.
From the far end of the gallery, Otto Hightower watched his daughter disappear through the doorway.
His expression did not change.
After a moment, he turned and continued on his way.
A moment later, Alicent entered.
A heavy leather-bound book rested against her hip.
She wore a simple gown of soft green, modestly cut, its colour almost blending into the stone walls around her.
She stopped immediately, dipping into a graceful, practised courtesy.
“Your Grace.”
“Rise, Alicent,” Viserys said, offering a small, tired smile.
“I have just come from Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers.” Viserys smiled faintly.
“And how fares my daughter?”
Alicent returned the smile.
“We spent the afternoon reading accounts of the Free Cities.” She glanced down at the book in her hands.
“She has a most spirited way of interpreting the texts.
She insists half the chroniclers contradict one another.”
Viserys let out the smallest chuckle.
“She has always preferred arguing with books to simply reading them.”
Alicent smiled.
It was not the performed smile of a courtier but something smaller and more genuine, a flicker of warmth that reached her eyes.
“She is kinder than she lets the court see,” Alicent added softly.
“I think she learnt that from her mother.”
Alicent lowered her eyes to the book in her hands.
“My own mother died when I was young.” Her fingers tightened slightly around the book.
“I remember wishing someone would simply tell me they were sorry.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Everyone was concerned with what came next.
Father had duties.
My brothers had their own grief.
The household simply…
continued.
“No one asked how I was.
She offered a small, sad smile.
“I think the princess feels very much the same.”
“I think…”
Alicent searched for the right words.
“…I think she is frightened that if she stops being angry…”
“…she will have nothing left of her mother.”
The room remained quiet. New chapters come out on novelping.com first.
At length, Viserys spoke.
“You’ve been kind to her.”
“I’ve only tried to listen.
Sometimes…” Alicent said softly, “…that is all someone truly needs.
” Viserys studied her for a moment.
“And for that,” Viserys said quietly, “you have my gratitude.” Alicent inclined her head.
For the first time in many months, Viserys truly looked at Otto Hightower’s daughter.
Not as the Hand’s child.
Not as another noble lady of the court.
He saw instead a quiet young woman carrying grief of her own, who had chosen to ease another’s without asking for recognition.
In a castle where every conversation concealed another purpose…
her presence asked nothing of him.
He found that strangely comforting.
“Rhaenyra is fortunate to have you.”
Alicent offered a small smile.
“I’m the fortunate one, Your Grace.”
Viserys pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Small Council chamber.
The councillors rose as one.
Lord Beesbury adjusted his spectacles.
Lyonel Strong, broad and unmoving, observed from his place.
Grand Maester Mellos inclined his head in solemn greeting.
Near the serving table, Rhaenyra moved between the councillors with a silver flagon, filling goblets one by one.
She performed the task dutifully, though without enthusiasm, as befitted the cupbearer of the Small Council.
Across from her stood Alicent Hightower.
She had been summoned without explanation.
Viserys had not told her why.
Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, sat with customary sternness, his gaze fixed on Viserys.
Only Otto Hightower seemed entirely composed, hands folded neatly, a faint, imperceptible curve to his lips.
Otto seemed the only man entirely unsurprised.
Viserys remained standing at the head of the table.
“Good morrow, my lords,” Viserys began, his voice flat.
The words hung in the air, drawing every eye.
Viserys offered no cushion of ceremony.
He spoke plainly, directly.
“I have decided to take a new wife.”
His eyes briefly found Rhaenyra before returning to the council.
“Before the end of spring, I shall wed Lady Alicent Hightower.”
Silence.
A collective intake of breath, barely audible, rippled through the room.
Lord Beesbury lowered his eyes.
Grand Maester Mellos gave a slow, approving nod.
Lyonel Strong’s expression remained unreadable.
Otto Hightower inclined his head, a faint, gracious movement that spoke of a man receiving news he had orchestrated.
It was a perfect performance of surprise, and Viserys saw it.
Viserys watched Rhaenyra.
He saw the sequence of emotions that played across her face, more devastating than any shout.
First, blank incomprehension.
Then, the slow dawning of understanding.
The cold arithmetic of it: Alicent, her friend, who knew, who had said nothing.
The silver flagon slipped from her fingers.
It struck the stone floor with a sharp crack.
Red wine crept slowly between the flagstones.
No one moved.
Rhaenyra stared first at Alicent.
Then at her father.
“Rhaenyra—” Viserys began, half-rising, a desperate, futile attempt to hold her.
Her back was to him, silver hair a stark line against the dark wood of the door.
Rhaenyra did not wait.
The door opened.
Then she was gone.
The door settled shut behind her with a soft, final click.
Something sank inside Viserys, the weight of her departure pressing down on him.
He had let her go.
He always let her go.
The door had barely settled when Corlys Velaryon spoke.
His voice was cold and controlled, far more dangerous than any shout.
He rose; his posture radiated fury.
“My house is Valyrian, the greatest power in the realm.
My house traces its blood to Old Valyria, as does yours.” His sea-coloured eyes fixed on Viserys, unblinking.
“I placed before Your Grace the finest match in the realm, but you—” He paused, the silence stretching taut.
“House Velaryon has given enough; I shall not ask again.”
Corlys had offered his daughter, Laena, a girl of twelve, of the purest Valyrian blood, a dragonrider’s line.
He had been passed over for the Hand’s daughter.
This, after the Stepstones, after his ships lost, after the Crown’s inaction.
Corlys did not look at Otto, who had begun to open his mouth, a smooth, practised attempt to intervene.
“You would not have my daughter for your queen.
Remember, Your Grace, that the sea has a long memory.”
Otto’s voice, too smooth, too late, cut into the quiet.
“Lord Corlys, the Crown values House Velaryon above—”
Corlys did not turn.
He walked to the door, his movements precise, unhurried.
The door closed a second time, a softer sound than Rhaenyra’s departure, but no less final.
The remaining councillors sat in strained silence.
Beesbury, Lyonel, Mellos, and Otto.
The tension, the unspoken question of two dramatic exits, hung heavy.
Lyonel Strong cleared his throat, his deep voice cutting through Viserys’s reverie.
“A wise match, Your Grace.” A pause, heavy with unspoken meaning.
“A king must sometimes choose between what is wise…” He paused.
“…and what is easy.”
No one had anything further to say.
He dismissed them then, a weary wave of his hand.
The lords bowed and departed one by one, leaving Viserys alone in the chamber.
He had got what the realm needed.
He had watched his daughter’s face crumple.
He was not triumphant.
He was not relieved.
He had traded his daughter, whom he loved, for one thing the realm required, and he knew, with crushing certainty, the true cost of that exchange.
He sat for a long time, the silence pressing in around him.
A soft knock at the door startled him.
Before he could bid entry, it opened a crack.
Ser Harrold Westerling’s familiar face appeared.
“Your Grace?
The hour grows late.
Shall I summon the maesters for your evening draught?”
Viserys merely nodded, a small, tired movement.
Harrold entered, closing the door softly behind him.
Rhaenyra,” Viserys said, his voice raspy.
“Is she…?”
Harrold paused, pouring the wine.
“Princess Rhaenyra departed the Red Keep shortly after the council meeting.
Viserys looked up.
“Where?”
“Dragonstone, Your Grace.”